


I Get a Little Warm in My Heart When I Think of Winter

by blue_fjords



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is injured helping Dean free Sam from a trap.  Stitches, visions and talking ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Get a Little Warm in My Heart When I Think of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RhymePhile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhymePhile/gifts).



Snow is still falling, leaving everything in that strange hush and filtered light of winter. Dean is reminded of snowy days from his childhood, hiding out in snow forts with Sam. “Practical training,” their father called it. Dean adjusts his grip on the hilt of Ruby’s knife and shoots a look across the unbroken white of the parking lot. This is no snow fort they’re laying siege to now, and his partner in crime is an angel in place of his little brother. A flash of tan against the white, a raised hand, and that’s the signal. Snow flies up from Dean’s charge, meeting the flakes that continue down, unconcerned. In less than a minute he’s covered the distance from the scraggly wooded area to Castiel, shoving open the door to the abandoned school.

“Be careful, Dean,” Castiel warns him, and Dean grunts in response. This is a bad plan, a stupid plan, but Dean can’t wait anymore. Sam is in the school.

Dean slides on the tiles when they slip inside, Castiel’s hand steadying him with a tight grip. The hall almost immediately splits into a “T” and Dean gestures Castiel to the right as he takes the left. They don’t know what they’re up against. A chorus of “stupid, stupid, stupid” battles the chorus of “Sam, Sam, Sam” in Dean’s head. 

Late afternoon sun, filtered through the falling snow and warped glass of the old school, provides just enough light. Dean’s ears are pricked – for breathing, for footsteps, for screams, but please, none of those. Each classroom is empty of life, tiny chairs stacked on tiny desks and covered in a fine layer of dust. The decorations – the alphabet cut-outs and dancing numbers and charts of gold stickers – have all been taken down, and only in a few spots can Dean see their sun-faded imprints. A staircase leads down at the end of his hall, and he pauses a moment. He can hear something dripping, and also, possibly, the shuffling of a body changing positions, stretching.

Castiel appears next to him suddenly, and he starts, biting back an oath. Castiel’s hands go up to his mouth, and he steps closer, forcing Dean back against the wall. He lowers his hands at Dean’s glare and whispers directly into his ear, “Four of them. Demons.”

Dean nods. That’s not bad odds. “Sam?”

“Restrained. Center of the room.”

Dean nods again, his breath whooshing out of him in a sigh of relief. “Okay. Go to the far side of the room. Thirty seconds, we attack.”

It’s fairly cut and dried. The demons aren’t prepared for them, and the restraints holding Sam to the floor are already half out of their sockets. Sam’s been working at them, and Dean feels a flush of pride. Sam could have got out on his own given one more hour, he guesses, but he’s out in a moment thanks to Castiel. Dean quickly dispatches the first demon, riding around in the body of burly biker, their chief muscle in this operation. An elderly woman comes at him with a rusted pipe, but Sam’s leg juts out and she trips, allowing Dean to rush in and finish the job. Dean glances up and sees Sam moving to help Castiel, a little quid pro quo for busting the manacles. A third demon is down, but the last one is in the body of a kindergarten-aged girl. Dean hesitates, half-way across the floor, and sees Sam hesitating just a foot away, his arm raising slowly. Castiel doesn’t hesitate, though, and his hand closes around the girl’s throat. She moves so quickly; all Dean can make out is a red blur before Castiel drops her and screams. Dean’s blood turns to ice in his veins.

Castiel is glowing, pulsing, white light escaping from a rent in the arm of his trench coat, a tear that goes down to his skin, through his skin. Dean does the only thing he can think of to do, and rushes forward, dropping the knife and pressing his hands over the wound, trying to hold it closed. His ear drums are bursting with the force of Castiel’s scream and his eyes are watering at the light. He’s not even aware of Sam taking off after the girl.

“Cas!” he yells. “Cas, hold it in! Come back, come back, come back,” he repeats in a mantra. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest and he feels he’ll burst, just like it looks like Castiel is doing. “But you _can’t_. I need you to come back. Come on, Cas.”

His hands completely cover the tear, and Castiel stops screaming, the light fading slightly. Dean can see the blue of Castiel’s eyes now, and he quakes at the amount of pain on display.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers.

“Come on, Dean, let’s get him out of here,” Sam says, and Dean pulls his gaze away to peer up at him. He hadn’t noticed Sam returning, with both Ruby’s knife and the object that sliced through an angel. It’s as delicate as a letter opener, and roughly the same shape and size. It’s no longer glowing red. Dean can’t tear his eyes from it until Sam thumps him on the back. “Thanks for coming for me, but now we really need to get out of here and take him someplace safe.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees distractedly, blinking one more time to focus again in the now gloomy room. It takes a bit of maneuvering, as Dean’s afraid that if he lets go of Castiel’s arm, the angel will explode again, but they manage eventually, one of Dean’s shirts tied over the gap in the trench coat and secured in place with Castiel’s tie. Dean gives his coat over to Sam as they still have almost half a mile to trudge through the snow to find the car. Sam takes the lead out of the school, breaking a trail through fresh powder. Dean watches the set of his brother’s shoulders as they tramp past the spot where Sam caught up to the girl demon. He’d pulled her body into the entrance of the school, out of the snow. Dean hoists Castiel into a more comfortable position over his shoulder and curses the demon that wouldn’t let a young child go free. That would harm his family. He stumbles. _That would harm Sam and Cas,_ he corrects himself.

His sweat is freezing on his skin and causing his undershirt to stick, clammy, to his back by the time they make it back to the Impala. Sam pulls the keys from Dean’s coat pocket and the ghost of a smile flits over his face. “Just get the damn thing open,” Dean grunts. “He’s not getting any lighter here.”

Dean slides into the backseat, awkwardly tugging Castiel along with him. The angel’s pulse is erratic, but he’s breathing and his eyes are partly open. The stark terror has receded from them, replaced by dull pain, and Dean bites his lip.

“How’s he holding up?” Sam asks as he drives carefully over the icy roads. Dean wishes he’d go faster.

“Fluttery,” Dean answers. “But maybe that’s normal for an angel. I’ve never taken his pulse before.” He lays his hand on Castiel’s forehead. It’s hot and damp and his hair is plastered to it. Dean swipes a lock aside, fighting back the sense of déjà vu. How many times has he done this for Sam?

“I think we should change motels,” Sam says softly. “I can grab our stuff real quick. I just … I don’t want to make it easy for them to find us.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Dean sighs. “Were there others there before?”

“Just those four,” Sam says, shaking his head. “So I don’t think Lucifer could know where we are. They never left me. Dean, I think they were scared.”

“Of who? Lucifer? You?” Dean frowns at the back of Sam’s head. “Sam, don’t tell me you’re regretting taking down a group of demons that could do this to Cas!”

“I’m not! I just think we should look at the bigger picture here. This weapon they used – we should take it to Bobby. It harmed an _angel_. What if it could kill one?”

Dean’s hands tighten around Castiel’s shoulders. “Cas isn’t dying.”

“Cas isn’t fully an angel anymore, either. But Lucifer _is_.”

Dean looks back down at Castiel. His eyes have fully closed now, and his breath is harsh and ragged. “We’ll hash this out with Bobby. Let’s just get someplace safe for the night.”

***

‘Someplace safe’ turns out to be a shitty motel two towns over. It’s fairly low-rent even by Winchester standards, but Dean is heartened by the sight of fluffy blankets on the beds, and a diner next door.

Sam helps him get Castiel situated on one of the beds, and then leaves him to his nursing to go secure the room. Dean can see him moving back and forth, pouring salt and drawing symbols on the walls. Their precautions have grown more and more elaborate over the past year, and even with them Castiel is mumbling and shaking on the bed. Dean gingerly pulls off the trench coat and suit jacket from Castiel’s uninjured side. The fabric bunches together on the floor at his knees as he surveys the wound once again. 

“Sam, come here for a sec,” he calls to his brother.

Sam brushes salt off his hands and approaches the bed.

“I’m going to slide my hand under the coats here, and you pull,” Dean instructs him.

“And then what?” Sam asks, frowning at the waterfall of coat and jacket.

“Then I’ll stitch him up! Just pull this off, will you?”

Sam sighs, but he drags over the first aid kit and grips the coats and tie in his hands. “Don’t you think this is a little low-tech to fix an angel?”

“You said yourself, Cas isn’t fully an angel. Besides, we have to do something. Now pull.”

Sam tugs free the knot and pulls off the outerwear. Dean immediately closes his hands around the wound. No white light escapes. “Not too shabby, eh, Sammy?”

Sam just shakes his head at him, tosses the coats onto the next bed and proceeds to thread a needle. Dean just looks at it. “Antiseptic?” he asks, raising a brow. Sam rolls his eyes, but reaches back into the kit.

“Would Dr. Winchester like his nurse to cut the patient’s shirt sleeve out of the way, too?” Sam asks in a sing-song voice.

“That’d be awesome, thanks. And it’s Dr. Sexy.”

Sam snorts, but takes out the scissors and proceeds to snip at Castiel’s bloodstained sleeve. Dean chews his lip as the formerly white sleeve falls to the floor. He hadn’t seen how bloody it was before; the white light had blinded him to all else. Dean takes a deep breath and slowly lifts his hands.

Castiel’s skin is red and inflamed over a four-inch long tear about half-way between his elbow and his wrist. His blood is the same shade as Dean’s or Sam’s, but there’s something about the wound that strikes Dean as profoundly wrong. He carefully washes it clean and pats it dry before it hits him. Despite appearances, Castiel’s arm is cold. He carefully stitches it closed, fighting down his misgivings and making the stitches extremely small. He’s never done so many on a tear of that size, but the memory of the white light, Castiel’s very essence escaping, inspires him to make them tiny.

Sam is watching him when he finishes.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders and stretches. It’s not ‘nothing,’ and he waits for Sam to speak again while he cleans up, hangs up Castiel’s coats, taking a moment to finger the rent in the fabric, and tugs off Castiel’s shoes and socks.

“We should get Cas some boots,” he says into the silence.

Sam stands up abruptly. “I’m going to get us some dinner from that diner.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam holds up a hand. “It’s just across the parking lot, and we need food. I’ll be fine.”

“Take the knife,” Dean capitulates with poor grace.

“Yeah, got it,” Sam says, already half out the door.

“And bring back some tea for Cas!” Dean calls after him. He grimaces at the closed door. “I must be losing it, Cas. I forgot to remind him to bring back pie.”

He glances over at the sleeping angel. It definitely looks more like Castiel _is_ sleeping now. Dean crosses the floor to lay a hand on his forehead and pulls back with a curse. The fever from the car is gone, and Castiel has grown steadily colder, near icy. Dean piles the extra blankets over him and sticks his hand under the sheets. There’s no body heat to build up any warmth. “Fuck,” he says out loud, and then again, three times more, louder and louder. _Get a grip, Dean,_ he admonishes himself. He pulls off his own boots and shrugs out of his leather jacket before getting under the sheets.

The mattress is old and dips in the middle. It’s easy enough for Dean to pull Castiel against him and wrap them both up in the fluffy blankets. Dean stretches out an arm and grabs the remote off the nightstand. _Dr. Sexy, MD_ is on, and the emo antics of the characters provide a welcome distraction to his own problems. He rubs his hand over Castiel’s uninjured arm. He has a memory, or maybe it’s just a dream, of his mother holding him like this once, possessively rubbing circles along his arm and shoulder.

Sam gets back with food, including pie and tea, about twenty minutes into an episode Dean has seen before. He just raises a brow at the sight of his brother and the angel snuggled into the same bed, and wordlessly hands over a Styrofoam container holding a cheeseburger and fries, dipping his hand into a coat pocket to pull out a couple tea bags he slaps onto the nightstand.

“He’s freezing cold,” Dean says, sitting up and juggling food and angel until Castiel is slumped against his chest and he still has an arm free to eat.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam responds.

“Your eyebrow did.”

“Dean, you don’t have to be defensive. If he’s freezing, that’s not a good thing. He needs to be warmed up.”

Dean eyes him suspiciously over his cheeseburger. “Then what is it? Spill, Sammy.”

Sam lowers his veggie burger and fixes Dean with his ‘lecture’ look. “What are we going to do about Castiel?”

“’About Castiel’? You sound like you want to send him to a 12-step program.”

“I’m serious, Dean. We don’t even know what he is anymore. You’re talking about buying him boots like he’s a stray puppy you want to adopt, but back in that school, he went all holy mojo on us. Your ears were bleeding, did you even notice that?”

Dean has to relax his clenched jaw in order to speak. _Shit, I didn’t notice that._ “Cas saved our necks. You owe him some gratitude.”

“Of course I’m thankful, Dean! That’s not the point!”

“Then what _is_ your point?”

“He’s dangerous, Dean! Don’t you get that? He’s like having a wolf following us around and obeying your commands, only he’s still wild. You can’t domesticate him. He could turn around and slice us to shreds with a thought, and just because he’s in love with you, doesn’t mean – ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up there! What the hell, Sam?” He’s long since dropped the cheeseburger and his eyes are fixed on his brother, even as his body is uncomfortably aware of the other body lying in his arms. The other body that is growing increasingly warm.

“Get a grip, Dean, I don’t mean that Cas wants to … to lick your freckles or something. I mean that you’re, well, it, for him.”

“You’re not clearing things up for me here, Sammy.” _Lick my freckles?!_ He shifts minutely under Castiel’s body.

“It’s _agape_. You remember what that is?” Sam is leaning forwards now, elbows on his knees, earnest expression on his face. Dean has to fight down a somewhat hysterical laugh at his brother’s facts-of-life talk. _You see, Dean, when a renegade angel is in love with you …_

“It’s, uh, Greek?” Dean asks, trying to concentrate.

“Yeah. It’s like God’s love for humanity or something, but it’s also – it’s unconditional love. Pure.”

“And you’re saying Cas feels this holy love for me?”

“Well, yeah. It’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, seriously, Dean, he died for you. What else would you call it?”

Dean can’t look at Sam anymore; not when he’s starting to make sense. He watches Castiel breathe instead. “Then if you’re so sure that he loves me so much, why are you freaking out about him being dangerous?”

Sam stares at him. “Did you hear what you just said? He _is_ dangerous. And the problem, Dean, is that I don’t think he can control it. He’s losing his grip on his powers.”

Dean’s still watching the steady rise and fall of Castiel’s chest. With the evidence of that afternoon’s attack safely under the blankets, he looks like he could be any human. He looks like he could be one of them. _He_ is _one of us._ “What’s your grand plan, then, Sammy? Because I can tell you one thing, we’re not kicking Cas out of the club.”

Sam sits back and runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t suggest that, Dean. I don’t know; I think you should talk to him.”

“Talk? Sam. Talking doesn’t help worth shit.”

Sam gives him his pursed lips, exasperated look. “Talking actually helps most people, Dean. Just not you. If Cas is becoming less of an angel and more of a human, he’ll probably want to talk about it. You should offer to listen.”

“Dude, seriously? ‘Hey, Cas, pretty harrowing attack, huh? How bout you spill on your crazed state of mind. You know you can tell me because you love me, isn’t that right?’”

“I wouldn’t word it quite like that,” Sam says, voice flat. “But yeah, that’s the gist. I think it would help him feel more in control and be … safer.”

Castiel makes a noise in his sleep, and Dean looks back down at him. “Cas?” he asks softly. Castiel’s neck is at an angle that will guarantee a crick the next day, and Dean shifts him around a bit. He can’t remember the last time he sat in such an intimate position with anyone. He resolutely does not think about Sam’s explanations of love. He’s got Castiel’s back, and Castiel has his. Like soldiers in war.

Sam clears his throat. “Anyhow. I’m going to see if I can figure out anything from the markings on the angel knife. You want your pie?”

Dean grunts his assent.

The rest of the evening passes quietly. Sam flips through a few books, but nothing jumps out about the knife. Dean finds a college basketball game on the TV and half watches it while he polishes off first his pie and then Sam’s. Castiel is a heavy, comforting weight in his arms by the time he decides Castiel is warm enough to handle Dean being away long enough for a shower. He carefully climbs out of bed. Sam’s already stretched out in the other one, feet hanging over the edge as he lightly snores into his pillow.

Dean scrubs extra hard at his hair in the shower, as if he could force in understanding and wash out confusion. The water is hot, but the water pressure is lousy and he has to stand under the trickle for twenty minutes to get clean.

The basketball game is now a post-game show, white and blue flickering lights casting shadows on the motel room’s walls. Sam had muted the sound, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that the soft noises he’s hearing are not from the TV. Castiel is shuddering in his sleep, his skin sheened with a soft white glow, and it’s instinct that causes Dean to stretch out his hand and a lay a palm over Castiel’s forehead.

_and there’s light, light, LIGHT, all around him, suffusing his body (his own body, it’s re-forming, healing) and it’s white, so pure, traveling down veins, forming muscles, knitting tendons together, and oh God, OH GOD he remembers. This is Castiel, this light, this PRESENCE, inhabiting each cell, each molecule of his life, sweet life returning and he wants to breathe, but he can’t, not yet, there’s still far to go. And his hands are clawing, grasping, digging into earth and Earth as the white light continues to course through him, pull him up higher, smooth away scars (from witches, from demons, from angry fathers, from LIFE) and it knows him, it KNOWS HIM, this light, this angel, and he’d cry if he could open his eyes, he’d scream if he could open his mouth, but he can’t, not yet. Almost there, almost, Hell is so far behind, the flames no longer licking at his heels, and how could they, when he is filled with such goodness? But he can’t reach the air, he can’t break free, all this light will be for nothing, this gift he doesn’t deserve but he desperately, desperately wants, until a voice is in his ear, his not-yet fully-formed ear. “Fight. Live. Dean. Dean. Remember who you are.” And he tries, he tries, the white light warming him, strengthening him until fingers find air, followed by his head, his eyes blinking in the sudden assault of sun, and his mouth opening wide, gasping in air, precious, precious air and with each gasp the white light fades farther and farther away. Memory twists and flaps in the breeze and by the time he is completely out, the angel’s presence has faded, and Castiel is a name to be re-learned, some other time, some other place._

He jerks his hand back, gasping from the onslaught. He’s breathing hard, and somewhere in there he fell to his knees. His fingers clench in the bedspread as he pulls himself up. Castiel’s eyes are open now, watching him, concerned. The white glow is fading, and as Castiel closes his eyes and takes a breath, it is gone completely. Dean stares down at the angel as he opens his eyes once more.

“What the hell was that, Cas?” he croaks, and clears his throat. His knees are still weak, and Castiel seems to have picked up on that, as he shifts in the bed, moving to the far side. Dean barely even spares a glance over his shoulder to make sure Sam is still sleeping before collapsing onto the bed next to Castiel, breathing hard.

“I believe I was dreaming,” Castiel says at last. “Or, to be more accurate, I was having a nightmare.”

“You ever had one of those before?”

“No.”

Dean stares up at the ceiling. It’s one of those speckled ones, hard to clean, as evidenced by the crud staining the white a dingy beige or dark mud in various places. He’s sick of the dirt.

“What was it like for you?” Dean asks. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on his face and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “Do you … do you want to talk about it?”

Dean doesn’t want to know. Except that he does, so much. He wants to hear …

“It was worth it, Dean. You are worth it.” Castiel’s voice is his usual deep gravel, so sure. His eyes bore into Dean, stripping him bare until his soul is laid out for inspection. But there’s not the feeling of weights and measures. Not anymore, if there ever had been.

Dean raises a shaky hand and places it on Castiel’s shoulder. “Let me see.”

“No.”

“Cas.”

“You already have memories of Hell, Dean. You do not need more.”

“I know I don’t _need_ them. I’m just … I’m offering to help you here.” Dean sighs and drops his hand back to his side before rolling onto his back. This was a terrible idea. He’s the worst person in the world to talk about feelings. He definitely shouldn’t have listened to Sam.

Castiel’s face appears above him and he gives an involuntary yelp, jerking up and banging his forehead against Castiel’s. “Close your eyes, Dean.” Castiel’s hands cradle his head, laying him back down, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his hands gripping the angel’s wrists. He’s dimly aware of the soft puff-puffing of Castiel’s breath on his face as a vision takes hold.

He’s diving, purposeful and strong, and it takes a moment to realize that his perspective is Castiel’s perspective. Whatever eyes the angel has in this form are narrowed in concentration, searching, searching, searching. All around him the forces of Heaven are clashing with those of Hell, inky blackness and blinding white light tangling and thrashing. Castiel pays them no mind. He is suddenly seized by an image, and Dean flails inside the vision as he sees himself from Castiel’s point of view – as he FEELS himself from Castiel’s point of view – for the first time. He hadn’t realized he was cold until he felt the heat of his soul, burning hot and bright. There’s muck and filth clinging to him, tendrils tying him to implements of torture, a wheel, a whip. The brightness of his soul is rent in places, inky blackness trying to force its way in to no avail. He is so very small.

The Dean inside of Castiel’s being feels time stop, the sights and sounds of the battling angels and demons fading into the background. The fires of Hell, the choking dust and ash, are of no consequence to Castiel from the moment he lays eyes on his charge. Dean doesn’t burn like an angel. The colors of his soul span a wide spectrum. Inside Castiel’s memory, Dean is quaking. Quaking because he can feel the wonder now, the faith, the love lavished on him by a creature so much more holy than he could ever be. When Castiel grips him tight and suffuses him with his being, healing, he wants to cry out that he is unworthy of the angel’s attentions. But he watches, instead, looking through Castiel as they fly up through Hell. Hands, claws, whole demonic bodies grasp at them, but they slough off the angel. Dean has the odd sensation of being Castiel, cradling himself to his not-solid angelic chest as wings beat the air. He has never felt this protected before. 

Dean gasps, coming out of the vision to see Castiel still hovering over him. The light from the TV screen illuminates an object on the walls, huge and feathery and unfurling deep shadows. Dean raises a hand but cannot grasp a shadow. Still, _something_ brushes against his skin, his consciousness, his very essence.

“Cas,” he whispers, and blacks out.

***

He’s alone in the bed when he wakes up. The bedside alarm clock reads 06:30. Dean pushes the covers back and rubs a hand over his face. He feels surprisingly rested, but worry is already beginning to set in. _Cas?_

The TV is off and one of the packets of tea is missing. Sam had introduced Castiel to the wonders of the hotplate a couple of weeks ago, and a little kernel of hope lodges itself in Dean’s chest. He stuffs his feet into his boots and throws a coat – Sam’s, his own is missing – over his shoulders. The trench coat and suit jacket are still hanging in the closet and Sam is still snoring into his pillow as Dean pulls the door closed behind him.

Castiel is standing outside, breath puffing into the air as he holds his mug of tea, eyes closed and face upturned to the gray sky. Castiel rolls his shoulders and raw power emanates from him, electrifying the air around them, before it fades, pulls in, and Castiel is just a man stretching his shoulders after a night on a motel’s thin mattress. A man who may need to … talk … about his recent brush with death. Dean squares his shoulders and takes his hand off the door handle. He huffs a little laugh at the mug: chipped, robin’s egg blue, with balloon letters proclaiming “Vacationland: Life is better in Maine!” He ignores the tightening in his chest at the sight of Castiel in his leather jacket and surveys his face for signs of illness, chills or a fever. He looks as healthy as he could in the bleached light of the overcast snowy morning.

Dean shifts his feet. “Look, Cas –”

“I had difficulty concentrating on mending my coat.” Castiel is very obviously not looking at him.

“What? Hey, man, I don’t care if you borrowed my coat.”

Castiel sighed heavily. “No, Dean. I couldn’t mend my coat. I couldn’t –”

Dean waits a moment for him to finish, but nothing more is forthcoming. “I can fix your coat, Cas. I’ve been mending clothes for years.”

There’s an overturned motel room trash can against the wall, and Dean drags it over and hunkers down. Castiel still isn’t looking at him, eyes on the near-empty parking lot. It’s just the Impala, a pick-up and a couple of boxy sedans. Dean rubs his hands on his pajama bottoms, searching for the right words. “You know,” he clears his throat. “You know you can tell me if you’re scared, right?”

Castiel takes a long sip from his mug. Dean’s heart beats a bit faster when Castiel finally looks at him. “You think that I am afraid of these wounds, Dean? At my inability to heal and mend?”

His back is against the motel wall, but that has never stilled his tongue before. “Well … yeah.”

Castiel shakes his head and crouches to place his mug on the ground. “They are merely symptoms, Dean. The end is a foregone conclusion. I have already accepted this.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “You’ve accepted losing your mojo?”

“It _has_ been happening.”

“Then … is it Lucifer?” His mind catalogs all of the things Castiel could be scared of, and Lucifer and Falling are right up there at the top of the list. And, also … “We’re going to find something out about that knife. Don’t worry.” He inwardly winces. _Lame, Dean._

Castiel’s lips twist into a sardonic smirk, an expression he is just learning and one that sits oddly on his face. “A knife that a non-angel can use to kill an angel? No concern to me. I’m not very angelic lately.”

Dean knows he’s not imagining the bitterness in Castiel’s voice, and he fumbles for something reassuring to say that isn’t as lame as his last attempt. “You know you’re one of us, no matter how you fight, right?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, eyes on Dean’s. Dean can feel heat creeping up his neck. “Not that you, you know, have to stay with us or anything,” he mumbles, looking down. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

“Yeah, so,” Dean continues, fiddling with the sleeves on Sam’s ginormous coat, “I’m glad we had this little talk,” he barely stumbles over the words, “and, uh, we can talk about,” he tries to think of how Sam would word this, “whatever you need to again whenever…”

Castiel places a hand under his chin, the other at the back of his neck, and lifts until their eyes meet again. “When I look in your eyes, I can see your soul shining out. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen outside of Heaven. And I dread and fear the day I look into your eyes and you are no longer there. I would give anything to prevent it.”

Dean swallows, the sound clearly audible in the snow-cloaked morning air. “Damn, Cas. Tell me how you really feel.”

“I don’t want you used. I don’t want you burned out.”

Dean smiles shakily. “That was an expression. I kind of already got that.”

Castiel just keeps looking down at him, hands cradling his face. Dean is suddenly aware of his day-old stubble, his morning breath, the way his hair must be sticking up; all his imperfections on the outside. But Castiel’s gaze cuts right through all that, through the stains Dean knows must be on his soul, and sees something worthwhile.

“Thank you for saving me,” he blurts suddenly, and flushes. _Now who sounds like a lovesick fool?_

“Always, Dean,” Castiel says gravely, and then surprises Dean with a smile. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Dean smiles back, briefly, before reaching up to grip Castiel’s wrists. His fingers find the pulse, steady beat beneath Castiel’s smooth skin, and he murmurs, “I’m not planning to leave.”

He opens his mouth to say something more but the door opens and Sam sticks his head out. If he’s surprised to find them like that, he hides it well, and directs a disgruntled look at his coat bundled around Dean’s frame.

“How’s your arm, Cas?” Sam asks, voice scratchy from sleep.

“I feel no pain,” Castiel replies, and finally takes his hands from around Dean’s face, his thumb dragging in an almost caress before he stuffs his hands into Dean’s jacket pockets. “Dean is a good tailor.”

“I’m opening a side business,” Dean says dryly.

“How about you do that _after_ we get to Bobby’s?” Sam shrugs his shoulders, trying to get the blood circulating. “I really want to talk to him about that knife.”

“Of course, Sam,” Castiel agrees readily and walks back into the room.

Dean can feel Sam watching him. He rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, we talked, okay? So you can quit your worrying.”

“Good. Did you … solve anything?”

Dean snorts and pushes himself to his feet. “When did talking ever solve anything, Sammy?”

Dean’s eyes catch Castiel’s in the rearview mirror an hour later as they leave the frozen morning behind them. Castiel smiles quietly, and Dean can’t keep the answering smile from his lips. Perhaps no problems were solved, and the knife, Castiel’s slow Fall and Lucifer were all still worries hanging around his head, but he feels inexplicably better.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to qthelights for the beta. Title from Tori Amos’ “Winter” because sometimes you just have to go there.  
> Originally posted for rhymephile in “Secret Angels III” at deancastiel in spring of 2010.


End file.
